


The Bet

by fms_fangirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Other, Relationship(s), Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undertaker loses a bet with Grell and must pay a surprising forfeit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bet

They were in the oldest section of the Grim Reapers’ Library – a tiny room that could be accessed only via labyrinthine corridors and winding stairs, guarded by a heavily locked wooden door. An elderly Shinigami climbed slowly down the steps that led to the top shelf, clutching an ancient volume to his chest.

“It had better be genuine,” he wheezed, dropping the book on a table.

Grell coughed at the cloud of dust he had created and smiled menacingly. “Are you doubting me?”

“I am breaking more rules than I can think of by allowing you access to this.”

“And you’re being very well-paid,” she answered, pushing a battered wooden box across the table.

The old man opened the box and stared at the object lying on the tattered velvet lining. His eyes took on an acquisitive gleam. “Beautiful!” he murmured.

“Satisfied?” she asked. “There are many who would pay a great deal for this.”

“But only I have the means of giving you the information you want. How did you acquire it?”

“You don’t want to know,” she grinned.

With great care, Grell opened the book and peered at the closely written script on the first page. She began to laugh softly and closed the cover. “Thank you, dear. I have what I needed.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“I still don’t know how you talked me into this,” Undertaker complained.

“You lost the wager, silly. I didn’t have to talk you into anything,” Grell laughed, guiding his feet into a basin of warm water. “Now be quiet and let the mask dry properly.”

When Grell had approached him with her absurd proposition two weeks earlier, he had agreed, although he believed that she had no hope of winning the bet. But she had and had arrived earlier that evening, bearing two enormous bags, to claim her forfeit.

Which was how he found himself in a pink polka-dotted bathrobe with a cucumber mask on his face, his hair covered in a deep conditioning treatment and wrapped in a pink towel, while he soaked his feet.

“You know this was not quite what I was expecting when you said you wanted to spend the night with me.”

“I don’t suppose it was,” she answered, pulling a terrifying array of implements from one of the bags, “but we’re going to have so much _fun_ , I promise.”

He wasn’t sure if it was fun, but he had to admit that it had felt very relaxing when Grell massaged the conditioner into his scalp and the cucumber mask was really quite soothing. Even if she had made some disparaging comments about the state of his pores. And the foot soak was rather nice; he did spend a great deal of time on his feet.

“Good Heavens, woman!” he exclaimed. “What is that?”

She had produced an alarming-looking tool that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to a large rasp.

“It’s for removing calluses,” she explained. “Those boots of yours are awfully dashing, but they must be terribly hard on your feet.”

He peered at the instruments she had laid out. “You’re sure these aren’t the tools from your Jack the Ripper days?”

“No dear,” she said with a ghoulish grin. “I save those for very special occasions.” She busied herself buffing away the hardened skin on his heels. “You sure you don’t want me to do your fingernails, too? I’m really quite jealous of them. You must tell me your secrets to keeping them so long and strong.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to paint them pink, so no thank you. What on earth are you doing now?” he asked as she poured a large quantity of strawberry scented lotion into her hand.

“Why giving you a foot massage, of course. Just relax and enjoy it.”

“I’m going to smell like a bowl of fruit by the time you’re done,” he grumbled. But it was most enjoyable, he conceded to himself. Grell’s fingers were strong, but supple and he was beginning to feel quite pampered and spoiled. Not to mention that Grell herself looked unaccountably appealing, wrapped in a blue-striped bathrobe, her face devoid of make-up and covered with a similar mask and her hair swathed in a white towel – very different from the fierce and flamboyant crimson reaper he knew. She looked younger and more vulnerable and far sweeter than he had ever imagined.

“It was either that or smelling like a bunch of flowers, dear,” she retorted. Lifting one of his feet from her lap, she said, “There, now don’t they look nice?”

Nice was never a word he had applied to his own feet, but they certainly appeared smoother and softer. He stole a glance at Grell’s bare feet, peeking out from beneath the hem of her robe. He’d never thought about it before, but her feet were definitely attractive – slender and high-arched with pretty pink toes.

“You still haven’t told me exactly how you managed to win the bet,” he said, trying to divert his thoughts from the path they seemed to insist on following.

“Oh, it wasn’t that difficult. Somebody owed me a favour.”

“It must have been quite a favour.”

“Not really. You see, Ronnie spilled a cup of coffee…”

XXXXXXXXXX

Ronald let out a long stream of uncharacteristic profanity and sheepishly dropped several coins in the Swear Jar that stood on the counter of the break room of the Dispatch office.

“Ronnie dear, whatever is the matter?” Grell asked, popping her head through the door. “I could hear you swearing all the way down in my office.”

He glared in disgust at the shattered mug and jumped out of the way of the spreading pool of brown liquid. “I knocked over a cup of coffee,” he grumbled. “It’s going to get all over my shoes.”

“You have made quite a mess,” she laughed. “You had better mop it up. Mrs. Jenkins will be furious if you leave it and you don’t want to annoy her.” She shivered melodramatically; everyone in the office lived in terror of the tiny, fierce cleaner. There was a rumour that she had reduced William to tears when he had neglected to pick up a fallen basket of shredded documents.

“But I have a date and I’m already running late,” he complained. “Grell…” he said in his most wheedling tone while giving her his cheeky grin, “I have to meet her at the Library. It’s clear on the other side of town. Please…”

“You’re going to the Library?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.

“Yes. She works there. Every fellow in the Dispatch is after her. I won’t stand a chance if I’m late.”

Grell grinned at him. “I’ll clean it up for you if you’ll do me a little favour. It’s quite fortunate, actually. I have a stack of library books to return. You can save me a trip.”

“Really Senpai? Thanks!” he exclaimed.

“They’re sitting on the corner of my desk. You run along and I’ll take care of this.”

Chuckling to herself, Grell hunted out the mop. Everything was falling into place.

XXXXXXXXXX

“I fail to see how returning some books to the Library helped you to win the bet.”

“Oh, it did. Now, dear, tip your head back a little and let me clean the mask off.” She dipped a soft cloth into a basin of cool water and began to wipe his face. “Normally, I would have used an exfoliating cleaner first,” she chattered, “but I don’t want to irritate your scars.”

He had no idea what an exfoliating cleaner was and decided not to ask, for fear she might tell him. How many bottles and jars had she brought with her? He had seen fewer in most apothecary shops. And what was she doing now? His skin began to tingle as she stroked his face with a moistened cotton pad.

“Oh dear. Does that sting?” she asked. “It’s the mildest toner I have. You do have sensitive skin.”

“Very,” he said with a wicked grin. “Maybe you’d like to see for yourself.”

“You are naughty,” she giggled, tapping his cheek with her fingers. “I’ll just rinse off my own mask and we’ll move on to the next step.

Next step? In all the centuries of his existence he had never encountered such a ritual. But he was enjoying himself far more than he had expected. “Perhaps I might return the favour and clean off your mask and put the – er, toner on your face?”

“That would be lovely!” she exclaimed. “I’ll just fetch some fresh water.” She disappeared into the other room and called out, “We have two choices tonight. We can be good or we can be very naughty.”

Somehow, he didn’t think she was implying what he hoped and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, carrying in a bowl of water, “I have brought some yoghurt and fruit or we can have some delicious chocolates and a lovely bottle of wine later.”

“What on earth is yoghurt?” he inquired, settling her into a chair and wringing out the cloth.

“It’s a sort of fermented milk.” She laughed at his dubious expression. “It’s quite tasty once you get used to it. There’s a new fellow in the Dispatch from Russia called Nikolai. He says people who eat it live simply forever; it’s supposed to be terribly good for you.”

He began to clean her face with smooth strokes of the cloth. “I don’t think longevity is a problem for either of us. I vote for the chocolates and wine.”

“Oh good! I was hoping you’d say that. They’re awfully nice chocolates – came all the way from Switzerland.”

“Given to you by an admirer, no doubt.” He stared in bewilderment at the bottles she had set out on the table, not sure which was the right one.

“No,” she said shortly, pointing at one of the bottles.

Undertaker tipped the bottle onto a cotton pad. “Really? I’m sure such a pretty, laughing lady as yourself has dozens of eager young men at her feet.”

“You’re sweet,” she sighed, reaching up to pat his hand, “but no.” Her smile had faded; she looked surprisingly wistful.

“Am I doing this correctly?” he asked as he dabbed at her skin, in an effort to lighten her mood. He had seen the genuine hurt on her face for a moment.

“Perfectly, dear.”

“I don’t suppose there is any chance of persuading you to tell me how returning books to the Library won our bet, is there?”

“I don’t see why I should,” she grumbled. “I won the wager fairly; you’re just annoyed that you lost.”

He took a seat opposite her. “I think you were simply lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it!” she insisted. “I was very skillful and clever.”

“If you say so, my dear,” he folded his hands and sat back.

“If I tell you, you must do something for me.”

“Of course. Your wish is my command,” he grinned.

She rummaged in one of the bags next to her and pulled out a tiny bottle. Handing it to him, she settled her feet in his lap. “You can paint my toenails.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Everyone agreed that Arthur Powell was the luckiest employee in the London Dispatch. Charming, handsome and intelligent, he had sailed through training, almost equaling Grell’s grades in combat. He quickly proved himself so skillful in collecting souls that his reputation was unrivalled by any except that of Undertaker himself. Rumour had it that he was already being groomed for William’s position and beyond.

When asked why she had not fallen violently in love with him, Grell had laughingly replied that he was too perfect for her, but she genuinely liked him – everyone did. To everyone’s surprise, he had fallen deeply in love with a woman who worked in Administration. To no one’s surprise, she loved him equally and they quickly became the golden couple of the Shinigami. So, no one was really shocked when, to increase this ridiculous abundance of blessings, it was learned they were expecting a child.

Children were incredibly rare in their world. It was generally supposed that the Shinigami form did not allow for easy conception or that the Higher Up had imposed some sort of population control, given their lifespans, so, of course, Arthur and his beautiful wife had twins – a boy and a girl.

Grell seemed to be the only one who noticed that Arthur was beginning to look a bit frayed around the edges; the only one who noticed how strained he looked while agreeing that, yes, he was a very, very lucky man. And she was the only one who had overheard William, in the break room, threatening him with demotion if he didn’t get his overdue books back to the Library by the end of the day.

He had just filled his coffee cup and set it on the counter as Grell walked in, passing William on the way out.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. You’d better scoot over to the Library right away.”

“I can’t,” he sighed. “If I’m not home on time, Caroline will kill me. I promised to watch the babies so she could have a night out with her friends for the first time since they were born.”

“How did you forget to return your books? You’ve never done that before.”

“I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since they were born,” he cried desperately. “Everyone tells me how blessed I am, but if one isn’t crying, the other is.”

“And even blessings require clean nappies regularly,” she chuckled. “I’ll take your books back for you.”

“Really Grell?” he exclaimed. “Thank you. I owe you a tremendous favour. Anything you want.”

“Do you have any of those cigars you were handing out after the twins were born?”

“A whole box. It’s yours. They’re in my office with the books.”

“I want the good ones you bought from Joseph Samuel in London,” she insisted.

“The best, I promise. I didn’t realize you were that fond of cigars.”

“I’m not,” she grinned, “but I know someone who is.” She followed him out of the break room passing Ronald on his way in.

XXXXXXXXX

“And acquiring a box of cigars helped you to win the bet?” Undertaker asked.

“Yes,” she said wriggling her toes in his lap. “You did that very nicely.”

“I am not inexperienced at making people look as attractive as possible, you know.”

“I suppose so. It’s funny,” she added after a moment’s silence, “I always thought you were rather – odd, insisting on making your guests look nice, especially the ladies, but it’s really very thoughtful and respectful.”

“Precisely,” he responded, somewhat surprised at her insight. “I oversee their final journey; they deserve to look their best.”

“You’re a very kind man,” she said softly, “to care for them like that.”

“Or, maybe, I’m just an old ghoul who is far too interested in some of his clients.” He scratched one of his fingernails down the sole of her foot. She didn’t react. He tried again.

“I have great control over my reflexes,” she grinned.

“All of them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and slipping his hand up her robe to tickle her behind the knee.

Grell calmly lifted her feet from his lap. “What a question to ask a lady!” Rising from her chair, she selected a bottle and stood behind him. “Right. Now, I’m going to moisturize your skin and give you a nice face massage.”

He meekly submitted as she applied a lotion smelling faintly of almonds. Her fingers moved soothingly across his forehead and temples; it was most pleasurable. “May I ask you something?”

“That depends,” she said warily.

“How is all of this,” he swept his hand about, “of benefit to you? You won the bet, yet I seem to be reaping the rewards.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you later. I suppose you were expecting me to pounce on you and tear your robes off.”

“Well, you have indicated an interest. Unless you were teasing that day in the Library.”

“I wasn’t teasing,” she said quietly. “But I wouldn’t want someone to make love to me simply because they lost a bet.”

“Nor would I.”

She was rubbing with her thumbs firmly behind his ears while her fingers gently traced the sensitive whorls. He had never imagined that it could feel so relaxing.

“I’m almost done here,” she said, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “Maybe we should have a glass of wine before we move on.”

Undertaker’s eyes lit up. “Actually, my dear, I made one or two preparations for your visit myself. Excuse me for one moment.” He disappeared, to return a minute later, brandishing a bottle and two glasses.

“Champagne!” she exclaimed. “How lovely! And it’s cold. How did you manage that in this weather?”

He opened the bottle with surprising expertise and poured them each a glass. “I require ice in my work room during the summer months.” He began to laugh at her squeamish expression. “I promise it hasn’t been stored with my guests.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, accepting a glass. “It would have been rather macabre.”

He lifted his glass to her. “To my lovely visitor.”

“And to my handsome host,” she replied. “Oh! This is nice!” she said. “I haven’t had champagne in ages.”

It was worth every penny of the prohibitive price he had paid to see her eyes sparkle like the bubbles in the wine, he thought. “Now that I have lavished you with champagne, will you tell me what a box of cigars has to do with our bet?”

“Do you remember a reaper called Lionel? I think you were still with the Dispatch when he graduated.”

“Good Heavens, yes! Stuffy, snobbish fellow – makes William look positively outgoing in comparison. Didn’t he have a Death Scythe that looked like a double-headed ax?”

“That’s the one!” she laughed. “He does mostly desk work now, but it doesn’t stop him from insisting that the rest of us are reaping all wrong. Anyhow, it turns out that he is inordinately fond of cigars…”

XXXXXXXXXX

Some people collected stamps, some collected coins or fine wines, but Grell liked to collect information. Her flamboyant persona made people careless around her and, over the years, she had amassed a surprising number of secrets, spilled by those who believed her to be too empty-headed or too obsessed with chasing some unobtainable man to pay heed to what they were saying. Most of what she learned was innocuous, but some was quite incendiary and all of it she hugged close to herself to use to her advantage.

Lionel Dunbarton was notoriously punctual, detail-oriented and fixated on the seniority privileges of the Shinigami. He also nursed a well-hidden grudge that he had been passed over as Supervisor in William’s favour and took great pleasure in defying him in little ways.

Grell loitered in front of the Dispatch, puffing away on one of the cigars she had just acquired, grateful that it was warm enough she could go coatless – she was going to stink of smoke badly enough without impregnating her coat. Passers-by cast sidelong glances at her, but no one dared suggest that the infamous red reaper find somewhere else to smoke.

Finally, she spied him strutting along the sidewalk. “Oh hello, Lionel. Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” She released a stream of perfect smoke rings.

“Is that a Romeo y Julieta?” he asked.

“Why yes,” she grinned. “Care for one?” She reached into her waistcoat pocket and produced a cigar.

“Thank you,” he said warily. He and Grell were barely on speaking terms most of the time.

“Don’t look so worried, dear,” she laughed. “It’s not going to explode in your face.”

“Where did you find them? There’s none to be had here.”

“I know and William’s so stuffy about us bringing things like this back from the human world.” She dropped her barely smoked cigar to the pavement and ground it out, desperately containing her amusement; he looked like he was about to burst into tears. “I have a whole box of the silly things,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Er – I could take a few off your hands. Name your price.”

“Oh no,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I couldn’t charge a colleague. You can have the whole box – in exchange for your next day off. Think about it, dear. You rarely get to the human world these days. It would be a great chance for you to stock up. What William doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she added slyly.

“Well,” he hesitated, “I do have this Friday scheduled off.”

“Wonderful!” she cried. “You don’t want your Scythe to get rusty, do you? You run upstairs and get the form to fill out and I’ll fetch the box and bring it to your office. All my collections are in London on Friday; you’ll be able to pop into Joseph Samuel and Son and it will be good for Ronald to see a truly experience reaper in action.”

As soon as he disappeared into the building, she picked up the cigar butt, holding it distastefully between her thumb and forefinger. Poor Ronnie! She’d have to think of something nice to repay him.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Did you find a way to make amends to poor Mr. Knox?” Undertaker laughed.

“Oh yes! He managed to double-book himself with two girls the same night. I pretended to be William’s secretary and called one to say he was going to be late and called the other to get him away, saying there was an office emergency.” She was slathering her face with moisturizer as told her tale.

“You really are a wicked woman,” he said admiringly. “I’m not going to ask if finagling a day off helped you win the bet because I know you will say it did.”

“Of course it did. I know you said you weren’t interested in any fruit, but I did bring some very nice strawberries. You can nibble on them while I get that conditioner out of your hair.” She bent over and began to rifle through her capacious bags. “Oh dear, I know they’re in here somewhere.”

“Take your time, my dear,” he chuckled. “I’m enjoying the view.” He was. Grell’s rump was high and pert and a pair of white lace French knickers were visible through the cotton of her dressing gown. She was sweetly flushed when she stood and handed him the container.

Fetching a large basin, she placed it on a high stool behind his head and unwrapped the towel. She carefully poured warm water from a ewer over his head and worked her fingers through his hair. It took several jugs of water to rinse out his hair; she wasn’t satisfied until every trace was gone. She toweled his hair gently and began to run a wide-toothed comb through it. “Stay right there while I mix up the rinse.”

“Rinse?”

“Why yes. I’m going to give you a rinse. It will bring out all the lovely silver tones in your hair.”

He barely managed to restrain a groan and reached for the champagne.

“You are going to look devastating by the time I’m done with you,” she giggled, refilling her glass and taking a large gulp. “Every woman around will fall at your feet.”

But he didn’t want every woman around. He wanted the one in front of him. He firmly took the glass from her. “I think I would prefer that you be clear-headed if you’re planning to do anything to my hair.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “And I should rinse out my own hair first; it takes simply forever to dry.”

She disappeared into the water closet. He could hear the water running and a fair bit of splashing.

“Do you need any help?” he called.

“I’m in the tub,” she shouted back.

“Perhaps I should come in and help.”

“Don’t you dare!” she yelled.

She emerged several minutes later, flushed and damp, the cotton robe clinging to her body provocatively. He had no difficulty discerning that she had discarded her knickers. Guiding her to the chair, he began to rub her abundant hair with a towel. It reached the floor when she sat, he noticed. He gently coaxed a comb through her heavy tresses and tried to squeeze out as much water as he could.

“I’m dripping all over your floor,” she complained.

“It’s only water. We can mop it up later. Why don’t you tell me what getting a day off had to do with winning the bet while I try to dry your hair?”

“All right. You see, I needed a new purse.”

“And you traded the day off for this purse?”

“No silly, I traded the day off for a bottle of brandy.”

“I give up,” he sighed. “Tell me how you got the bottle of brandy.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“Grell! What are you still doing here? I thought your shift ended over an hour ago.”

“I just had a couple of things to take care of. Don’t worry,” she laughed, “I won’t be claiming any overtime.”

“Thank goodness,” William replied. “The amount of overtime in this branch for the past few months has been disgraceful. And I just received a complaint that you were seen smoking a cigar in front of the office.”

“Is that against any of the rules?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, but it is undignified and unprofessional.”

“I might ask what you’re doing here,” she inquired. “I thought you were off this week.”

William sighed and adjusted his glasses. “I was scheduled for leave, but we lost a man last month and two agents were injured last week. I’ve been covering for one of them.”

No wonder he looked so tired – working a full extra shift as well as trying to keep up with his own paperwork. Grell followed him to his office. “I think you’re being very foolish. When was the last time you took a day to yourself?”

“Five or six months ago.”

“Honestly William!” she grinned. “What use will you be to the Dispatch when you collapse from exhaustion or if you’re injured? You take Friday off. I’ll cover your collections. The desk work will survive for one day.”

“That’s very kind of you, but it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Why ever not?”

“I’m your superior. How would it look if I were to take your day off for myself?” He rubbed his face tiredly.

Grell puffed her cheeks out in exasperation. “It would look like you were allowing a colleague – one who’s been with you since the beginning – to do you a favour.”

William hesitated.

“The Royal Pigeon Racing Association have an event going on,” she coaxed. “Her Majesty has a bird entered.”

“Very well,” he finally said, “but you must allow me to do something for you in return.” He reached into a drawer and produced a bottle. “I seem to recall that you enjoyed a glass now and then when we were in training. I can’t drink the stuff; it gives me an awful headache.”

“That’s not necessary, but thank you,” she said. “And I seem to recall you got dreadfully sick on it after our graduation,” she added with a grin.

He smiled sheepishly. “You’re the only one still with me in the Dispatch to remember that.”

He looked pensive; Grell could follow his thoughts. Most of their fellow trainees had moved to other branches or other departments; more than a few had fallen. Only she and William remained.

She covered his hand with hers for an instant.

“Honestly Grell!” He had retreated to his former self. “Your shift is over. Don’t you have better things to do than hang about the office? And please don’t force me to have to draw up a list of smoking regulations.”

“No dear,” she smiled.

XXXXXXXXXX

“That was very kind of you,” Undertaker said. “To give William your day off.”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “I did get of bottle of excellent brandy, which came in handy later.”

“But you weren’t looking for anything in return.”

Her hair was still very wet, but no longer dripping everywhere. She tied it back loosely and busied herself mixing the contents of a box she had pulled from her seemingly bottomless bags in a small bowl.

“I love William dearly,” she sighed, “but sometimes he drives me mad. Anyone could see how tired out he was.”

“Of course,” he said slowly, “you love William. How foolish of me to have forgotten.”

She went very still and turned to face him. “Of course, dear,” she said, her voice growing hard, “I made a laughing-stock of myself for years. I was a brazen hussy. Ask anyone.”

“He hurt you very badly, didn’t he?” he asked gently.

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a shrill laugh. “I have no feelings to hurt. Everyone knows that. Now,” she said briskly, “sit down and let me get this rinse on your hair.”

He peered into the bowl. “It’s blue! You’re not putting that on my head!”

“Oh relax! It won’t turn your hair blue. I promise.”

“It had better not,” he threatened, “or I’ll tie you down and dye _your_ hair green.”

“I’d like to see you try to tie me down.”

He caught her wrists in an iron grip and pulled her close to him. He could feel her warm breath on his face as her eyes grew huge. “Don’t tempt me, my dear.”

She smiled and pulled away. “You see? I told you we would have fun tonight.”

Undertaker had to admit he couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed himself as much and hoped Grell felt the same. He found himself wondering about her. The gossip concerning her that reached his ears from the Shinigami world was usually appalling, but he was beginning to question how much of it was true. As she applied the mysterious substance she had concocted to his hair with a flat paintbrush, he asked, “So how do you normally pass your free time?”

“You mean when I’m not slicing women to ribbons in the street?” she replied in a brittle voice. “Or making a fool of myself over some man?”

“No,” he said quietly. “When you’re being your true self; when you’re doing something that gives you joy – that makes you happy.”

“That’s a very personal question,” she sniffed.

“Humour me, my dear. I’ve lived a very long time. There is not much left these days to arouse my curiosity. What is your home like?”

“Oh, it’s just a little flat, not far from the office.”

“Painted red from top to bottom, no doubt.”

“Why would I do something like that?” She wrapped his head in a towel and sat opposite him. “I’d fade into the background,” she grinned.

“You could never do that,” he chuckled. “Do you read, go out with friends, go to the theatre?”

Grell took a file and attended to her nails. “I meet Ronald or one or two of the others for a drink occasionally.”

“Such as William?”

She sighed. “No. I was absurdly in love with him for years, but you can spend only so long chasing after a man who has absolutely no interest. It’s much better now. We are actually on quite friendly terms these days. I miss the drama sometimes, but I always will care for him.”

He was ridiculously relieved by these words.

“Of course,” she continued, “looking this fabulous takes a great deal of time.”

“If what you’ve put me through this evening is any indication, I’m surprised you have time to go to work.”

“But the results will be worth it,” she laughed. “You’ll see. I did have some ballet tickets a little while ago.”

“And did you enjoy the performance?” She scarcely struck him as being fond of the ballet.

“Oh, _I_ didn’t go.”

“Then I suppose they had something to do with winning our bet.”

She smiled at him “You learn quickly.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell strolled into Accounting with the bottle of brandy, managing to not to smile as the young man sitting in one of the cubicles barely repressed a groan at her appearance.

“Bernard dear, relax,” she crooned. “I’m not here to argue with you about my expense report.”

“Thank heavens,” he sighed, “but would you please tell Mr. Knox that, if he insists on wearing white shoes, he may not claim shoeshines as a legitimate business expense.”

“I’ll try, but I do you think you are most unreasonable. How can we be expected to do our jobs well if we have to worry about our clothes?”

“The rest of the Dispatch seem to manage quite well with plain black suits and shoes. Just be grateful I allowed your claim for having your coat cleaned,” he grumbled.

“Oh dear, are you still out of sorts about Amanda?” she asked sympathetically.

“How did you know?’ He glared at her accusingly. “I haven’t said a word.”

“Last week, you were up in the alts; two days later, you’re haven’t a civil word for anyone,” she retorted. “I am sorry dear. You seemed quite serious – getting those expensive ballet tickets and all. You looked all set to pop the question.”

“I was,” he said glumly.

“Well, there are plenty of charming girls about, who would love to go to the ballet with you, I’m sure.”

“I hate ballet,” he said gloomily. “All that silly leaping and twirling about, but she liked it.”

“Um – I could take those tickets off your hands if you like.”

“You like ballet?” he asked in surprise.

“I don’t dislike it,” she said truthfully. She had never been in her life; maybe she did like it. “You can have this bottle of brandy. It’s worth far more than those tickets ever since Customs clamped down on bringing goods back from the human world.”

He stared at her doubtfully.

“It’s Courvoisier; Napoleon’s favourite,” she wheedled. “You can drown your sorrows in the best, or, better yet, invite poor Harold for a drink.”

“Is he back? I hadn’t noticed.”

“I don’t suppose you would have,” she sighed. “His compassionate leave was up last week, but the poor fellow is still dreadfully depressed. He wanders about like a ghost; barely says a word to anyone. Didn’t you two do your accounting course together when you arrived here?”

“We did. I – I should have said something to him when he came back.”

“It was tragic,” she said, placing the bottle on his desk. “The whole Dispatch was devastated when that demon cut poor Warren down, but Harold was heartbroken. They were such a sweet couple. I’m sure he’d appreciate a gesture from an old friend.”

“I’m an ass, aren’t I?” he ruefully.

“A little selfish and blind maybe, but you’re feeling bruised as well,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Go on. Ask him back for a drink. It must be dreadful for him, going back to that empty flat every night.”

“I will,” he said producing two tickets from his pocket and pushing them across his desk. “And Grell…”

“Yes dear.”

“Thank you.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“My dear,” Undertaker said, “you must stop trying to convince me that you are heartless. That was extraordinarily sweet of you.”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “I recognized Bernard in Harold’s class photograph when I stopped by while he was on leave. I don’t know him that well. It simply occurred to me that spending time with an old friend would do them both good.” She had just finished painting her fingernails and was wriggling her fingers in the air. “Why don’t you be a dear and check that bag for those chocolates?” she suggested.

He hastened to do her bidding, admitting to himself that he was curious about what else she had in those bags. His poking about revealed a number of jars and tubes – day cream, night cream, eye cream, hand cream, cuticle cream, foot cream. “Do you have a cream for every part of yourself?” he asked. “What’s the difference?”

“Not much, really,” she admitted, “but there’s this lovely shop at home. I can’t help myself; I go mad whenever I’m in there.”

He continued to rummage. “Body wax – I’m not even going to ask what that does. Styling gel, styling mousse, styling wax. Oh my!” He produced a small bottle. “This is interesting. Warm and Sensual Massage Oil.” He read the label on the bottle. “Gentle enough for the entire body including intimate areas.”

“Put that back!” she shrieked. “I didn’t mean to bring it.”

“What a pity. I was hoping it was next.”

She turned pink. “It was a free sample,” she insisted.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You are a warm and vibrant woman. Of course you have lovers.”

“No, I don’t,” she muttered. She stared unhappily at her hands, resting in her lap. “I’m too – odd for the men that interest me.

“And the ones who are interested are too odd for you?” he asked gently, popping a chocolate into her mouth.

She remained stubbornly silent for several minutes. “What about you?’ she finally said. “What do you do when you’re not working with your guests?”

“I read. I visit the Library. I provide information for Sebastian and Earl Phantomhive. At night, I like to go for a walk.”

“I’ve seen you,” she said, scooping up the assorted bottles and instruments and putting them back in the bag. “I’ve seen you give coins to beggars or buy a hot pie for a shivering bootblack. I saw you protect a streetwalker from a group of drunken thugs one night. Good thing you never encountered Jack the Ripper,” she added with a grim laugh.

“What would you have done?”

“If you had tried to hurt Madam Red, I would have sliced you in half.” She fetched a basin and unwrapped the towel. “Tip your head back, dear. I’m going to rinse this stuff out of your hair.”

He complied, enjoying the soothing sensation of her fingers working through his hair. “Suppose you explain about the ballet tickets now,” he said. “And I still don’t see where the new purse comes into all of this.”

“You remember me talking about Nikolai earlier?”

“The Russian with the yoghurt?”

“Yes.” She emptied another jug of water over his head. “Seems he was a prince or a count or something like that – thousands of acres of land, a palace in St Petersburg, over a thousand serfs. That sort of thing. He’s a lovely man – you know, all dark and broodingly handsome and he speaks the most adorable broken English. His family were great patrons of the ballet and he adores it.”

“So, you gave the tickets to this handsome Russian? Did he have the purse?”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “What sort of man do you think he is? He had a doll.”

Undertaker burst out laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so entertained. Grell had disposed of the dirty water and was toweling his hair dry. She smelled faintly of lavender and roses, he noticed. “Of course he had a doll,” he laughed.

“And it was a good thing he did. I should never have won the bet otherwise.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“Ah! The charming Agent Sutcliff has come to brighten my day!” Nikolai exclaimed when Grell tapped on his office door. He flung his arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks. He was a bigger flirt than she was.

“Nikki, darling!” she crooned. She adored him and loved having someone about the office who was considered almost as dramatic as she was. William refused to allow them to work the same shift.

“Such a pleasure! I fetch you glass of tea?”

“I can’t stay, dear. I just stopped by to see if you were interested in taking these of my hands.” She dangled the tickets in front of him.

“The Mariinsky!” he cried. “I was desolated! They are all gone in London in an instant. Poof!”

“Be desolated no longer,” she giggled. “If you want them, they’re yours.”

“You are not pulling my arm?”

“No dear, I’m not pulling your leg.”

“Such beauty! Such grace!” He spread his arms wide as if mere words could not encompass his feelings. “So kind you are. I give you big bottle of vodka.”

“Thank you dear, but I don’t really care for vodka.” A night out with the Dispatch had taught her that lesson the hard way. “Actually, I was wondering if I could have one of those sweet little dolls you were handing out to all the secretaries when you came back from your vacation.”

“The Matryoshka doll?” He pulled a Russian nesting doll from one of his drawers. “She is yours.”

“Lovely. Thank you,” she said, putting it in her pocket. “Now, you know that pretty girl with soft brown hair who works in Spectacles?” She repressed a smile as his eyes lit up and a foolish grin crossed his face. “I heard she is desperately fond of ballet – studied it when she was a girl.”

“Of course!” he stated. “She moves like dancer.”

“Indeed. But she’s terribly shy.”

“Like little bird, she is. I go softly and not frighten little sparrow.”

Grell wasn’t sure if Nikolai was capable of going softly, but she had seen his eyes linger on the young woman and had noticed hers following him and left his office satisfied that she had killed two birds with one stone.

XXXXXXXXXX

“I would never have thought of you as a matchmaker, my dear.”

“Hardly,” she laughed. “Any fool could see how those two felt. I simply gave them a little nudge.”

He had expected that she would have used the threat of her Death Scythe to obtain what she need to win their bet, but every step of her improbable journey had benefited someone else. “You really are a superb actress,” he said. “Who would imagine that you hid such a kind heart beneath that red coat of yours?”

“Don’t forget how I acquired that coat, dear,” she replied, her eyes glittering for an instant.

“Still, you would have cleaned up Ronald’s mess without looking for anything in return,” he insisted.

“Perhaps.”

“And you would have returned Arthur’s books.”

“If I happened to be passing the Library,” she shrugged.

“And you did give William your day off.”

“I promise you things become less rose-coloured. I had to stoop quite low to get that purse I mentioned.”

Undertaker fetched the bottle of wine she had brought and poured her a glass. “How low? This tale becomes more interesting all the time.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell finally left the Dispatch office twenty minutes later. She could hear Nikolai in the break room expounding on the beauty of the dance to anyone who would listen and saw Harold, smiling for the first time since his return, as he and Bernard left the building together.

She set out for the shopping district. The Shinigami liked to call themselves a classless society, but everyone knew that there existed a certain, privileged elite and an array of shops, cafés and boutiques were set along a wide avenue to serve them. She rarely ventured into these shops herself; most were far beyond her means and she realized that she made the clerks uncomfortable. But she had established an uneasy rapport with the owner of one extraordinarily high-end boutique – a woman whose means of acquiring her stock of highly-desired items was best not to be too closely questioned.

“Fiona, my dear!” she exclaimed, as she strolled in. “Good afternoon.”

The immaculately coiffed and dressed woman responded with a guarded smile. “Agent Sutcliff. How nice to see you.”

“Now dear, I insist that you call me Grell,” she replied with a slight edge to her voice.

“Of course. Are you looking for anything in particular – Grell?”

“Oh no! You know I can’t afford anything here, so you mustn’t tempt me. Just let me spend a few minutes looking at all your lovely things.”

She wandered around the shop, entranced by the stunning selection of luxury goods, while telling herself firmly not to be diverted from her purpose, not even by the luscious crimson silk scarf, subtly patterned in gold, she saw on one of the counters. Finally, she spied what she had been looking for.

“Good heavens!” she cried. “How ever did you get it? Isn’t that an H.J. Cave and Sons handbag?”

“It is,” the owner replied smugly. “I have a contact in England.”

“May I just look at it a little closer? Please!”

The woman took it from the display case and placed it on the counter. Grell ran her fingertip along the soft leather and managed not to faint at the price tag.

“Oh! It is so beautiful, but I mustn’t.” She turned away for an instant and turned back. “I could survive on bread and water for a year,” she said to herself. “It would be worth it. I’ll take it!”

“I’m sorry, Grell,” she said. “There is a year-long waiting list for this handbag. This one is already promised to someone. I can’t say who, of course.”

“Of course not. I understand,” she said as a small girl peeked around the door leading to the back of the shop. “Oh my! Is that your little girl? She’s lovely.” She reached into her pocket and placed the little Russian nesting doll on the counter.

“Fenella! Mummy is busy with a customer right now. Wait in the back.”

“Please! It’s quite all right. I’ll just poke about for a moment longer and be on my way.”

She examined a display of fine leather gloves, watching from the corner of her eye as the little girl sidled over to the counter. Idly, she opened the doll to reveal the smaller dolls inside.

The child’s eyes grew huge. “What is it?”

“It’s called a Matryoshka doll. It comes all the way from Russia,” she answered.

“Where’s Russia?”

“Russia is a very large country in the human world, a long way from England.” She wracked her brain for everything Nikolai had told her of his homeland. “It can get very cold with deep snow that turns everything purest white. There are thousands of miles of birch forests and a city called St Petersburg filled with beautiful palaces and churches and great statues and a street called the Nevsky Prospekt with lovely shops like this.”

“Mummy, can we go to Russia?”

“Now, Fenella,” she laughed, “when you’re old enough to go to the human world, we’ll visit London and Paris. I promise.”

“But I want to go to Russia!” Her eyes began to fill.

“Look,” Grell said. “See how each doll has another little one inside, down to the baby. And look at the dear little kerchief she wears. The Russians call it a babushka.”

“Can I have a doll like that?”

“I don’t see how, dear,” she said with a sly smile. “It comes from so far away and there are only a few of them here.”

Her lips began to tremble and tears spilled down her face. “Mummy! Please! I want one!”

The shop owner cast a pleading glance at Grell, who smiled back with steely intent. “It was given to me by a very good friend.”

“I could put you near the top of the waiting list,” she said desperately.

Grell began to reassemble the doll as the little girl’s tears fell. Her pathetic silence was harder to bear than the loudest wails.

“Very well,” the woman sighed. “You can have it.” She laid the purse in a velvet bag, which was packed into a box and, finally, placed in a bag.

Handing the doll to the child, Grell managed to sign the bill without wincing. If the next part fell through, she _would_ be on bread and water for the next year, but, at least, she would have a handbag to die for.

XXXXXXXXXX

“The Shinigami do indulge their children dreadfully,” Undertaker said disapprovingly.

“Maybe so,” Grell agreed, “but there are so few of them, so it’s understandable.” She was running a comb through his hair. “Your hair will be dry soon. Then you can have a look at yourself. You’re simply dazzling,” she giggled.

“If you say so.” He rolled his eyes. “Are there many such shops in our world now? I rarely venture further than the Library when I visit.”

“Oh yes! They’ve sprung up like mushrooms over the past few years – as well as some terribly exclusive restaurants. There’s this one, modelled after La Tour d’Argent in Paris, where you have to make reservations six months ahead of time, and you still might not get a table unless the maître d’ likes you.”

“Have you ever eaten there?”

“I could have.”

“So, the maître d’ likes you?”

“Not exactly, but I was able to do someone who works there a favour.” She had laid the comb aside and was massaging his shoulders, her fingers skillfully seeking out the knots in his muscles.

“I suppose you’re going to say it had something to do with our bet.” He sighed with appreciation as the tension in his shoulders and neck melted away.

“It did. You see, there’s a young woman who works in the kitchen as a sous-chef. She’s simply brilliant – probably have her own restaurant in a few years.”

“And she is fond of expensive handbags?”

“No, but she is fond of someone who is.”

XXXXXXXXXX

The summer evening was warm and clear and Grell was enjoying her stroll, stopping occasionally to peer in the windows of the boutiques that lined the streets. She knew she drew more than a few glances; reapers weren’t usually found window-shopping in this district and the notorious red reaper never passed unnoticed. Smartly dressed women sauntered along carrying shopping bags, attractive couples walked arm-in-arm into the restaurants and groups of friends sat at the tables that spilled out onto the sidewalks from the cafés.

Grell entered one and took a seat at a table overlooking the street and ordered a glass of wine. She surveyed the scene about her with some amusement, especially the long line at the door of the restaurant across the street and the crestfallen expressions on the faces of those who were turned away. A young woman in food-stained chef’s whites slipped through the crowd at the door and crossed the street to join her.

“Agent Sutcliff! Were you really able to get it?”

“I certainly was, dear,” she laughed, placing the bag with the purse on the table. “Sit down, Laura. Do you have time for a glass?”

“No,” she sighed. “I only have a few minutes, but Gran will be so thrilled.” She handed Grell a thick envelope and a small card.

She read the card quickly and pocketed it. “Are you sure you girls will be all right? You can pay me over the next few months if you’d prefer. It’s an awful lot of money.”

“We’d rather not,” she said firmly. “Gran wouldn’t approve for one thing and the others were already uncomfortable about dealing with you.” She clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. “I’m sorry. That sounds dreadful, but…”

She forced herself to smile pleasantly. “Not at all, my dear. My reputation precedes me. When are you giving it to her?”

“Tonight. The boss let me have the back room and lay on a spread.”

“How lovely. I’m sure you’ll all have a wonderful time.” She sipped her wine. “I’m glad I was able to help.”

“How did you convince her? That ridiculous woman was horrible to her when she went into the shop.”

“You don’t want to know.” No doubt, by tomorrow, everyone would be convinced she had threatened a helpless woman and child with her Death Scythe, but the truth was too absurd.

“Just wait until the next time she tries to get a table at a decent restaurant,” the girl grinned. “She’s been blacklisted in every nice place around. Thank you, again,” she said, gathering up the bag.

“My pleasure.”

It was growing late, but she had one more stop to make before she could return home. She had paid for her drink and left a generous tip when she heard her name. Looking up, she saw Arthur’s wife and a group of women taking seats at a table near hers. She exchanged a cool nod and smile with Caroline and left the café.

XXXXXXXXXX

“I’m mystified,” Undertaker said. “Children are rare enough in our world, but grandchildren are virtually unheard-of.”

Grell was combing his hair again. “I’ll let you fix your braid yourself,” she murmured. “Do you know Mrs. Jenkins?”

“That terrifying little woman who cleans the Dispatch offices? Mr. Jenkins was a brave man. Is she that girl’s grandmother?”

“No. She lives in an ancient apartment block not far from mine. Personally, I suspect she owns it. She’s actually very sweet and kind to all the girls who live there – they all call her Gran. Ronald tried to date one of them once; she almost tore his head off. She was terribly upset one morning. It seems she was waiting to meet up with Laura and went into that shop. The owner treated her like dirt.”

“I see.”

“So, I stopped by the restaurant to see Laura. She and the rest of the girls were furious and simply determined to get their hands on that purse for Mrs. Jenkins for her birthday last week.”

“And you agreed to acquire it for them.”

“Yes.” She stood back to admire her handiwork. “Oh, you do look lovely.”

“And so do you.” She was faintly pink and giggly from the wine they were drinking. Her dressing gown belt had loosened, allowing him glimpses of her slender legs and more. He tried not to stare, but her fair skin entranced him. He longed to see her grow rosy with passion and blush from his kisses.

“It seems a bit rude of her not to have invited you to their little party, considering what you had done.”

“Why would she?” she shrugged. “It’s not as if I’m one of them. Now, you must let me do your hands,” she insisted. “I promise not to paint your nails, but your cuticles are disgraceful.”

“Very well,” he sighed. Undertaker had caught the wistful note in her voice and was beginning to suspect her true motives in passing the evening as they had and placed his hand in hers without further argument. “And why wouldn’t Powell’s wife ask you to join them for a drink? If it weren’t for you, her entire night out would have been spoiled.”

“Oh, Caroline’s always been a bit frosty with me ever since Arthur scolded her for not allowing me to hold the babies when she brought them into the office. You should have seen William,” she laughed. “He was petrified the whole time that he’d drop them or break them. It was so sweet.”

“But why shouldn’t you hold the babies?”

“Well dear,” she said, “I am only slightly less frightening than Mrs. Jenkins.” She bared her teeth. “I guess she was worried I’d try to eat them,” she added with a forced laugh.

Grell bent her head over his hand. The tie had come off and her face was hidden by her hair. She was squeezing cream from one of her innumerable bottles onto his fingers and working with some mysterious instrument around his fingernails.

“Stop it, Grell,” he snapped. “You have shown yourself to be kind and thoughtful and generous to those around you, yet you persist in believing that you deserve no such consideration yourself. Stop pretending you have no feelings.”

Her head flew up and she looked him in the eye. “I have feelings,” she said quietly. “Feelings I have no business having.” She stood abruptly. “I need to fetch another basin of water to clean this stuff off your hands.”

He was increasingly sure why she had insisted on subjecting him to these endless rituals and was beginning to suspect something else – something that made him tingle from head to toe in a manner he hadn’t experienced in centuries.

She was scowling when she returned; her face was set in a fiercely stoic expression as she rinsed his hands and scrubbed at them with a small brush.

“You must have more tools than I do,” he said in attempt to make her smile again.

“Most likely,” she said with a reluctant grin, “but, as I said earlier, the really _interesting_ ones are back home.” She smoothed cream onto his hand and began to massage it in.

“I really do feel quite spoiled,” he said softly. “Perhaps, you might like to come back and spoil me again sometime.”

“You’ll have to lose another bet,” she giggled.

“Or win one,” he replied, closing his hand around hers. “And you haven’t told me what was on the card that girl – Laura, was it – gave you.”

“It guaranteed the carrier a table at the restaurant upon presentation.”

“Please don’t make me beg you, my dear. How did that allow you to win our wager?”

She squeezed out more cream and turned her attention to his other hand. “Do you know of a man called Frankie the Fish?”

“Good gracious! What were you doing, going to the likes of him?”

“He had what I needed. I know he’s a bit of a rogue, but-“

“A rogue!” Undertaker interrupted. “He’s a thug and a thief and, probably, a murderer.”

“And I am a murderess,” she said flatly. “Anyhow, like me, he has retired from criminal activity – for the most part. He dabbles in smuggling goods from the human world and other contraband, but the authorities prefer to ignore him.”

“Disgraceful,” he grumbled. “I’m glad I don’t live in that world any longer. At least they don’t pretend that crime doesn’t exist here in London.”

“Depends who commits them,” she retorted. “You know that as well as I do. So, Frankie got married last year and his wife is frantic to get them into a better social circle.”

“You mean like the people who patronize those shops and restaurants? I think I see where this is going.”

XXXXXXXXXX

It wasn’t far from the street of glittering shops and cafés, but this neighbourhood was entirely different world. Music and light spilled out from the taverns and pubs. The streets pulsed with warmth and life; here, people laughed and lived and loved, far from the airless and suffocating atmosphere of the so-called elite. Grell made her way into a crowded pub and approached the bar.

“Is he here?”

“He’s waiting for you, Agent Sutcliff,” the grizzled publican said, ushering her into the Saloon Bar.

Frankie the Fish, nicknamed thus due to his greyish complexion and unfortunately bulging eyes, was ensconced at a table with several associates, who immediately left at her appearance.

She pushed the card across the table to him. “It’s only good once, you know.”

“I know,” he sighed, “but she’s wild to go there.”

“It won’t make any difference in the long run,” she said sympathetically. Grell had never imagined herself pitying someone more infamous than she was, but his desperation to please a woman who would probably never be satisfied struck an uncomfortably familiar chord as she thought of her years of pining over William.

“Probably not, but you kept your side of the bargain.” He snapped his fingers and one of his cohorts appeared, bearing an ancient wooden box.

She peered inside. “Just checking, dear,” she said with her most menacing smile and shut the box, satisfied.

“You know, Agent Sutcliff, if you ever tire of the Dispatch, you could come work for me. I could use someone with your abilities. I would pay you well.”

“It’s tempting, dear.” It was; the notion of finding a place where her eccentricities wouldn’t matter, where she would fit in, was appealing. “But, for the time being, I think I’m best suited to reaping.”

“Keep it mind,” he said. “The offer stands. And I’ll make sure you can bring your Death Scythe with you.”

Deciding that she’d rather not know how he would accomplish that, she grinned and said, “At least you know how to treat a lady.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“And what did he give you in exchange for a table at that restaurant?”

“A jade Death Scythe.”

“A jade Death Scythe!” Undertaker’s mouth dropped open in shock. “There were only ever three made. One is on display at the Library.”

“And Frankie had the other two. He adores his wife; would do anything for her and she was set on celebrating their anniversary there.”

“It’s absolutely priceless! He must be mad about that woman!”

“He is. It’s rather touching, actually. Now,” she said, standing and hauling him to his feet, “I think the time has come for you to see the results of all my hard work. Is there a mirror in your bedroom?”

“Yes, but-“

But she had already flung open the door and pulled him inside. She came to a sudden stop and stared about in disbelief at the invitingly turned down bed, made up with crisp white linens, the huge arrangement of red roses, subtly perfuming the air and the dozens of candles flickering softly, casting a golden light over the whole room.

“You must be very disappointed,” she mumbled, staring at the ground.

“May I explain?” he asked taking her chin between his fingers and forcing her to look into his face. “Had you chosen to spend our night together like this,” he gestured with his free hand at the bed, “I would have been delighted, but I am _not_ disappointed. I cannot remember having enjoyed myself as much as I have this evening. You have given me a very rare and precious gift.”

“What?”

“The opportunity to get to know you better. A glimpse of the kindness, sweetness and generosity that you keep so well-hidden. I’d say it is quite clear that I was not repulsed by your offer in the Library that day, but, once I have finished admiring myself in the mirror, we shall spend the rest of the night however you choose.”

“However I choose?” she asked.

“Yes. I would like to hear the conclusion of your tale, but, afterwards, you may gather up all your potions and elixirs and go home, if you wish, or we can finish the wine and spend the time gossiping. I think I understand why you chose to claim such a forfeit.”

“You do? And why is that?’ She crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Forgive me for being blunt, my dear,” he said gently, “but your form does not match your nature. Those women, who exclude you from their little gatherings, hurt the feelings you will not admit you have. You seem friendly enough with your colleagues at the Dispatch, but they do not treat you like the lady you are. You wanted an evening of feeling feminine and frivolous and decided to force silly, old Undertaker to go along with you.”

She shoved him hard towards the mirror. “Go take a look at yourself, you silly old fool.”

He stared at his reflection. The results weren’t immediately apparent, but he did look different, somehow – smoother, more polished. His hair gleamed softly in the candlelight. Pushing it back, he examined his face. He looked like one of the aristocrats he saw in the streets on occasion, like a man with a valet and endless hours to spend on his appearance.

“I told you,” she grinned, “you look stunning.”

“I think the effect is somewhat spoiled by this dressing gown,” he laughed.

“I think you look adorable in it,” she sniffed.

“No,” he insisted, “you look adorable in your dressing gown; I just look foolish.” He took her hand and guided her to a small chair and sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, tell me the rest of the story or I’ll lock you in my workroom until you do.”

“You really don’t think the idea of being locked up with your guests would frighten _me_ , do you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “There’s not much left to tell. The Archivist at the Library collects antique Death Scythes. He agreed to give me what I wanted if I found him the jade Scythe. I’d heard Frankie the Fish had the remaining two in his possession and went to see him. I told him that a favour from a Grim Reaper wasn’t to be sneezed at when his wife appeared in the most dreadful state because they wouldn’t give her a reservation for the night she wanted. Since I’d already agreed to try to get hold of that handbag for Mrs. Jenkins, it all fell into place. You see, dear,” she beamed at him, “it was meant to be.”

XXXXXXXXXX

_One week earlier_

Undertaker smiled to himself at the sight of Grell stalking into his shop, late one evening. To say their first encounters had been odd would be a severe understatement, given that she had attempted to strangle him, stuffed him in a pot of salt and thrown herself at him in the Library. But in the months since she had taken to dropping by every week or two, while working in London. He usually offered her a mug of tea and a biscuit as she regaled him with gossip about the Shinigami world and he shared news of London.

She teased him and flirted with him and charmed him more with every appearance and he was surprised to realize how much he missed her when a week went by without a visit, but he had been truly stunned when she proposed the wager.

“What if you win?” he had asked.

“Then I spend the night here with you.”

“And if I win?”

“You can choose your forfeit. Tell me never to darken your door again. Whatever makes you happy.”

Her grim expression led him to believe she had come to admit defeat, but she defiantly shoved a slip of paper at him.

He read it, his face carefully blank. “My dear, it would appear that you have won.”

“Of course I have,” she said. “I’ll be here next Tuesday evening. Lock up early. We’re going to be busy all night.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“And am I correct about your reasons in claiming your forfeit as you did?”

“Almost,” she replied, staring at her hands clenched in her lap. “I could have made a bet with Ronnie. He would have gone along with most of this, if only to humour me, but I wanted it to be you. Of all the reapers, present and past, you’re the most like me.” Suddenly, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Heavens! That sounds insulting. I’m not trying to compare myself to _you_. What I meant was you’re unconventional and don’t care what people think of you. I knew you might complain and grumble a bit, but I knew you would see the fun in it. I’ve enjoyed myself so much tonight and I think you have, too.”

“You’re wrong. I do care what _you_ think of me. I care very much.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed softly. “What would you have demanded if you had won?”

“Something quite similar. Fewer creams and lotions and rinses,” he admitted with a smile, “but an evening in your company. A chance to get to know you better. I couldn’t lose this bet, no matter how it turned out. But will you answer some more questions for me?”

“All right.”

“You cleaned up Ronald’s spilled coffee so he would take back the library books.”

“Yes.”

“And you offered to return Arthur Powell’s books in exchange for a box of cigars.”

She nodded.

“You gave the cigars to Lionel for a day off, which you gave to William and he gave you a bottle of brandy in return.”

“That’s right.”

He climbed from the bed and crouched at her feet, taking her hands in his.

“Bernard gave you his ballet tickets for the brandy and Nikolai took the tickets for the doll. The doll got you the handbag and that allowed you to give Frankie the Fish a dinner reservation in exchange for a priceless antique Death Scythe.”

“You remembered it all perfectly, dear,” she laughed. “I will admit it sounds rather confusing when you put it like that. It all seemed perfectly logical at the time.”

“Confusing!” he exclaimed, pulling her to her feet. “It’s positively mind-boggling. You went through all that – all those people, favours and exchanges…”

“All in the space of one day, too, I should point out,” she grinned.

“All of that to win our bet.”

“Well, yes.”

He took her face between his hands and peered into her eyes. “And why was this so important to you? What possible reason could you have had in doing all that just to learn my true name?”

Grell wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head down until their lips were almost touching. “Because it’s absurd to be in love with a man whose name I don’t know.”

And Undertaker’s lips were on hers and he tasted the sweetness that he had known was there as she yielded to his hungry, insistent kisses.

He lifted his head and smiled down at her. “All you had to do was ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> H.J. Cave and Sons are credited with having invented the luxury handbag.


End file.
